


until we bleed

by dropofrum (95echelon)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Bechdel Test Pass, F/F, F/M, Slow Burn, jon's lowkey an asshole in this one, thank god he's also pretty otherwise what even would be the POINT
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-23
Updated: 2018-02-03
Packaged: 2019-02-06 01:40:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12806802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/95echelon/pseuds/dropofrum
Summary: The first colour Jon sees isred.Or, when Jon bonds with Sansa, three days after she is born, Lord Stark has little choice but to send him far from home, for fear of his ancestry being discovered.In the years that follow, Jon trains with the Sand Snakes, plays cyvasse with Doran Martell, and watches Arianne lure men to her bed and then send them away, her world still colored in shades of grey.He tries not to think about Sansa Stark.(He fails.)And when they meet again, thirteen years later, everything has changed.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The World Turned Upside Down](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6448798) by [Rumaan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rumaan/pseuds/Rumaan). 



 

 

**LIES.**

 

 

_"I have worked at the downfall of Tywin Lannister since the day they told me of Elia and her children."_

_**\- Doran Martell, A Feast For Crows**_

 

"What colour is that?" little Jon Snow piped up, toddling into step with her as she wound her way from the kitchens to the Great Tower where breakfast was being served to the Lord's family. Old Nan grinned, gap-toothed and kind.

"Red," she told him, tossing a Highgarden apple from her basket, tucked up against her hip, and watched him snatch it out of the air, examining the glossy, variegated skin with single-minded focus. "Someday you'll be able to see it."

But the boy peeked up at her from beneath his sooty lashes, a mischevious grin curling up the side of his mouth.

"Oh-ho," she crowed, putting on a deep, sonorous boom, puffing out her chest in her best impression of the Greatjon and pretended not to notice when Jon giggled. "And what's this? Has our young man been up to some naughtiness?"

"I _can_ see it," Jon Snow whispered, fingers almost white around the apple, a wide grin splitting his face, grey eyes sparkling. "I can- I can see _red_."

"My word," Old Nan croaked, coming to a standstill, warmth blossoming in her heart, a fond smile crinkling up her eyes. "And who's the lucky lass, Jon?"

He ducked his gaze, dark-cheeked and shy, so entirely unlike his Lordling half-brother, quiet where Robb was loud, uncertain where Robb was brash, watchful where Robb was confident. They were each other's perfect foil. True brothers, for all that Jon wasn't borne of the Lady Stark's womb.

"I'm- I'm _sorry_. I _know_ I wasn't s'posed to go in, I just wanted to get a look at her, Robb's been going on and _on_ about her and I just wanted to- An' I'm _sorry_."

"Jon," she cuts in sharply. "Who is it? Who is your bonded?"

"I- I think it's the baby."  
Her heart dropped to her stomach. "Lady Sansa," she concluded, dread curdling her insides to something foul.

His little face had fallen, mouth drooping into a somber line. Jon nodded, fidgeting in place, as he looked up at her, wide-eyed with discomfort and... fear?

"Have you told anyone?"  
He shook his head, dark curls whipping in the wintry breeze.

"Well, praise the gods for small mercies," she muttered darkly. "Come, boy. We must tell his Lordship."

 

Lord Stark did not react the way she expected.

That was what seized her attention, for she knew this boy, she knew this man, knew him better than anyone living. She had been with the then-Maester when he drew Eddard Stark from the womb of the last Lady of Winterfell, shoving him in her arms unceremoniously while he laboured to save the Lady. Red-faced and slimy and squalling his little lungs out, Ned Stark had never been louder than the day he was born.

She had been there when he was named, when he learnt to walk, when he picked up his first sword, when he rode his first horse.

She, after the Lady Stark had passed away, had held the Stark boys to her breast, and wiped away their tears and told them stories of dragons and knights, great battles and fierce warrior-princesses, until sleep took them away from the horrors of their world.

She had _loved_ them as if they were her own; handsome Brandon and gentle Ned and sweet Benjen. She had _loved_ those boys, as she had loved her own sons, boys who had perished in the Rebellion, and she _knew_ them.

And she hadn't expected Ned to react this way.

Where there should have been denial, there was silence.  
Where there should have been disbelief, there was fear.

" _Sansa_ ," he repeatedly hoarsely, his skin grey, pulse ticking wildly in his throat, eyes flitting between Old Nan and Jon.

"'Tis what he said, my Lord," Old Nan replied as plainly she could manage, while Jon tangled a hand in her skirts, and fought the urge to hide himself from Father's grief-stricken gaze. "First thing he saw, the color of her hair. Like apples, he says."

"Seven _hells_ ," he muttered, collapsing back into his chair and scrubbing his face tiredly, arms sprawled over the rests, and Old Nan restrained the urge to snap, _'Language, Ned!'_ the way she had done a thousand times when he was a boy.

"It isn't _possible_ , my Lord," she said lowly, heedless of whether she was over-stepping her boundaries, uncertainty and disbelief clawing at her insides. _He wouldn't have lied, would he?_ "In all my years, I have never heard... A thousand years of stories and tales, and I have never heard such a thing to be possible. Blood so close cannot form a bond, not in the First Men, or the Andals, or even the Rhoynar."

It did amongst Targaryens. Blood-bonds were all the Targaryens had ever seen, since the time of Valyria's Doom.

But the Crownlands were half a world away from the North, and the _Starks_ did not bond with _sisters_.

 _Who is he, Ned?_ she thought, wildly, glancing at the little boy, at the way he had turned parchment-pale with fear, shoulders trembling like a leaf in a summer storm. Grey eyes, dark hair, long face. Round-cheeked, but with the architecture of those sharp, Stark features that would groove themselves in as he grew older. It had been easy enough, to look at Ned and think, _'Aye. This is your boy.'_

 _Who is this child?_ she must now ask herself, for she cannot ask Ned himself. _Who is this child you call a son?_

When he said nothing, made no move to answer, she realized this was a secret he wasn't willing to give away. Not yet. "What is to be done now, milord?"

Ned glanced down at Jon, his eyes dark with a sadness she hadn't seen in, oh, years. "I must think on it, Nan. You'll make certain no one else... is told?"

She nodded. "Aye, certainly. I'll speak to the boy." She took Jon's hand, and with one last worried glance at Ned, departed the Lord's solar as quietly as they had entered. But she paused at the door, and murmured, low enough that Ned would hear, and remember.

"He deserves to know, Ned. If his true parents are alive..."  
"They're dead," the reply came, sharp and guttural.  
"Both?"  
"Aye."

" _Oh_ ," she replied, choked, tears threatening to blur away what little remained of her vision, heart thumping away wildly in her creaking ribs as she pulled the door closed behind her. "I see."

 

"B-b-but I don't _want_ to," Jon blubbered, tears trickling down his face, flushed dark, and Nan extended her arms, letting the boy clamber into her lap, hiding his face against her bony breast, body wracking with heaving, gulping sobs.

"There," she murmured, thumping his back, slow and measured, feeling his hot tears soak her gown. "There boy, don't cry so. You'll make yourself sick, come on now."

"I don't want to go, Nan," he whimpered pitifully, small hands fisting at her sternum, over her steady heart. "I don't- _I don't!"_

"You must," she said inexorably. "Don't you love your Father? Don't you trust him?"

Miserably, Jon nodded, refusing to lift his head away from her shoulder, the rough silk of his hair tickling her chin.

"Then trust him when he says this is to keep you safe."

"This is because of _her_ , isn't it?" he said, a low tremor of fury in his voice.

"Who, Jon?"

" _Sansa_ ," he hissed, and then he did look at her, dark and focused, a hard anger throbbing in his voice and Nan startled into silence, wondering helplessly what they were doing to this boy, the way they were hurting him, to keep some unfathomable secret.

"No, Jon-"

"-I _know_ it is. I know Father's sending me away because of _her_ ," he snaps back, staggering down from her lap, hands balling at his sides, neck bowed as his spine straightens, his shoulders draw back, one foot slightly behind the other, unconsciously taking up the fighting stance Master Roderick has begun drilling the boys in.

When he speaks again, Nan's blood runs cold, at the venom in his voice, old and poisonous and altogether too harsh for a boy of four.

_"I hate her."_

 

"A raven arrived today," Doran mentions off-handedly, pouring Oberyn a fresh cup of wine and sliding it across the table to him.

"Oh?"

"Mm, yes." Oberyn takes his seat in the divan across from his nephew, by Ellaria's side, an arm about her narrow waist, settling into an easy sprawl. The sky is streaked with lilac and gold above them, and the braziers on the terrace of the Old Palace have already been lit, their heat dimmed by the sea-breeze.

"From the North."

Oberyn arches a brow at that. "The North," he repeats incredulously.

"Eddard Stark has an... interesting request," Doran replies, staring out to the sea, lapping against the shore in rolling surges, watching the foam break against the sand in gentle waves. "He wishes to foster his bastard here."

"He- Really?" Oberyn sounds incredulous. "Here? The other end of the continent?"

"It is what he says," Doran says, with a uncharacteristic shrug. He's usually stifffer than that, more rigidly formal. This request must've shaken him.

"What is it?" Oberyn presses. "Why so glum, nephew?"

"I'm older than you," Doran points out, tiredly, an age-old argument that now brings them both more comfort than anything, and from the answering twinkle in the prince's eyes, he does appreciate it.

"The boy..." Doran muses. "Well, we don't know his mother, do we?"

"I don't know," Oberyn mutters impatiently, " _Do_ we?"

"No," Doran says. "There's precious little to know. We know Lord Stark was infatuated with a Dornish girl at Harrenhal. We know there was some talk of her bearing a Sand, during the Rebellion. We know he visited her at the Palestone after that Baratheon boy took the throne. We know she-" He exhales, a weak, hoarse rattle issuing from his chest, and Oberyn tries not to flinch away from its sound, a sickening reminder of how weak Doran has begun to grow.

"We know she killed herself, the little fool," Doran continues wearily. "We know Lord Stark arrived at Winterfell with a bastard boy."

" _Ashara_ ," Ellaria gasps, and both men turn to her, one shocked, the other resigned.

"Indeed, Lady Sand," Doran acknowledges with a brief nod. "Perhaps he wants the boy to know his mother's culture. If she was his mother."

"What reason does Lord Stark give for sending the boy here?"

Doran shrugs, mouth curling down in dissmissive boredom. "He says the other Kingdoms are cruel to natural children. He wishes a better life for his son. You know," Doran waves off. "The usual sentimental claptrap."

"Oh yes," Ellaria drawls, cheeky and grinning. "That is what the North is famous for, isn't it? Outpourings of _sentiment_. I'm sure Ned Stark writes sonnets and picks flowers in his spare time too." She pauses, grinning, before she adds, "Your grace."

Doran's lips twitch at that impertinence, glancing at them from the corner of his eye, taking the way Oberyn snorts, dropping a careless kiss to her temple, old familiarity between the two glowing golden and warm in the setting sun.

"Will you take him in, your grace?" Ellaria asks eventually.

"Aye," Doran replies, draining his cup dry as the sky turns steadiily darker. "At the very least, it should keep things interesting, yes?"

Oberyn rolls his eyes. Ellaria grins, sharp like a knife.

Doran sighs, mind wandering already to more pressing matters, and wonders if they need to send Magister Illyrio another shipment of gold and wine. Viserys Targaryen may only be six, but apparently, a little boy in a city like Pentos quickly develops expensive tastes.

And it won't do to keep little Arianne's future husband deprived, now would it?


	2. Chapter 2

** HOME. **

**Then.**

**The Old Palace**  
**Sunspear  
** **Dorne**

 

"Who are you?" sneers the oldest girl, and even Jon's not so young that he can't tell she isn't dressed properly. Girls _don't_ wear breeches and armor! But these ones do - tunics belted with studded leather, chainmail and gauntlets too, and swordbelts slung low over narrow, childish hips. 

He looks up at her, craning his neck up, wide-eyed with shock, at her sun-browned skin and startling green eyes. Her stomach is flat and her arms are corded with muscle, and her... sisters, perhaps - for they certainly look like sisters - are much the same. Although the one on Jon's right is lazily spinning a dagger in her hand, in a way that makes him gulp with fear, and stumble back into the courtyard's low, sandstone walls. 

The girls step in closer, in perfect unison, as if they _practice_ terrifying little boys in their spare time. They've drawn so close, they blot out the Dornish sun that beats down across the land with unchecked ferocity, making the air shimmer with moisture and heat, making Jon feel dizzy, drunk on warmth and sunlight. The first day he had arrived at Sunspear, he had turned his face up the sky and watched the insides of his eyelids turn blood-red. 

And then, in his mind's eye, he had seen  _her_ - 

seen her shift under the patchwork quilt, baby-soft fists bopping lightly against the sides of the crib, her hair red, red, _red_ -

a spill of blood on snow-white sheets, and her eyes flutter open -

_blue_ -

And Jon's eyes had flown open against the sunlight too, his heartbeat racing, an ache so painful it stole his very breath spreading through his bones. 

_San-sa. San-sa. San-sa,_ his pitiful heart seemed to beat, the strength of his bond holding him hostage, a prisoner in a gilded cage, and Jon had felt rage spiral outwards, against her, against his bloody Father, against the _world_. 

**Now.**  

  

**King's Landing  
** **The Crownlands**

"Father!" Sansa called, hurrying after Lord Stark, unceremoniously hitching her skirts higher and sprinting down the hallways, Arya on her heels. For once, at least, the two sisters were united in purpose. "Father, may we attend the tourneys? Please?"

"Please?" Arya echoed beseechingly, her grey eyes so huge it felt like they were swallowing up her whole face. 

Ned Stark grinned, fairly bemused. It was a rare enough sight, to see his girls not at each other's throats for once. "Excited, are you? Both of you?"

"Father, please, mayen't we? Princess Myrcella says the Black Knight will be-"

"The _what?!"_  

"The Black Knight!" Arya echoed. 

"They say he's _never_ been beaten," she enthuses breathlessly, "not yet anyway, and that's the best swordsman Dorne's ever produced and that's including the last Morningstar, and-"

"-and Princess Myrcella says he's _ever_ so dashing Papa," Sansa adds, hurriedly, when Arya pauses to breathe, "the handsomest man ever, from what her letters from Lady Margaery say, and he rides like the wind-"

"Alright. Alright, girls," Ned chuckled, smiling broadly, clapping a hand on each of their shoulders.

"So we may attend?" Sansa pressed, eyes huge and pleading. 

"Certainly," Ned says, chucking her lightly on the chin, eyes twinkling as he takes in Arya's fierce, wide grin. "And does this paragon have a name?"

Sansa nods, cheeks flushed with excitement. "Ser Jon," she said airily, and the breath knocked out from Ned's lungs. "He rides for House Martell."

 

 

 

Ser Jon's first opponent is a boy from Lannisport, from House Crakehall, young, untried, some distant relation to the Queen. His destrier is a fleet-footed bay, thirteen-and-a-half hands high, with a broad, vaulted chest and a creamy stripe running down its nose. 

Arya squirms in her seat, peering down the barricades to the other end, where a pitch-dark stallion waits, riderless and impatient, snorting, pawing at the ground. It's surcoat is not visible beyond a flash of bright thread, but Arya can already imagine the sun, cresting above the horizon, shining and brilliant. The sigil of House Martell. 

Beyond the tilts, there is a sea of variously-shaded tents pitched in courtyards, armorers and medics and squires milling about, tending to their duties. 

"Ser Jon Snow," roars the herald, and Sansa gasps out loud. Arya watches the flaps of the closest tent billow open, a young man striding out as he snaps his helm on, dropping the visor down before swinging onto his horse by the reins in a single motion of jaw-dropping fluidity. "Riding for House Martell!"

" _Snow?_ " Sansa's hissing urgently at Father, who's seated between the girls, wide-eyed with surprise. 

"He's a _bastard?!_ " Sansa shrills lowly, sounding _utterly_ devastated, at the same time that Arya tugs at Papa's sleeve, exclaiming happily, "He's a Northerner!"

As Ser Jon gallops down to the starting post, lance held parallel to the ground, shield braced up, Arya notes his surcoat has no sigil at all. There is no sigil on his shield either, a plain dark thing, glossed to a brilliant shine, so that it gleams in the sunlight, a rich, flat obsidian glow like the heart of a darkened star. 

"Why doesn't he have a coat of arms?" Arya wonders out loud. 

"Because he's a bastard, stupid," Sansa sneers, her pretty mouth caught in a desultory pout. The excitement has vanished from her eyes, but there is a flush climbing up her neck, Arya notes, and she can't seem to be able to tear her gaze away from the young knight as he makes his bow to the king, from afar. 

"Bastards aren't allowed to bear arms?" Arya asks Father, and from beside him, Sansa scoffs irritably. 

"No, Arya," Father says softly, but his eyes too, are trained upon the knight, as the bugle sounds, and the horses erupt into a gallop.

"That's _stupid_ ," she mutters, and muses, not for the first time that day, that life can be awfully unfair. 

Ned chuckles. "I don't make the rules, little one."

"No," Arya replies readily, "but you're the Hand now. You could **_change_** the rules."

And then Arya's breath catches in her throat, as she watches the men advance upon one another, seeing with shock that Ser Jon's opponent has pointed a lance a little too off the mark. The thunder of their hooves crashing against the ground drowns out the sound of her rushing heartbeat, and when Ser Jon's lance crashes into his opponent, knocking him off the saddle and into the dusty ground, she's not the only one who jumps from her seat in rousing, cheering applause. 

"Aye," Ned murmurs, looking to his youngest daughter, a soft smile catching him unaware. His gaze drifts back to Jon, who takes one long look at his opponent, still struggling to his feet, before sliding off his saddle. He walks over and lends the Crakehall boy a hand, pulling him up and clapping his shoulder, tugging off his helm to share a brief, slightly embarrassed grin. 

_Promise me, Ned. Promise me._

" _'Change the rules...'_ " Ned's smile turns warmer, sadder, a little nostalgic. "Aye, perhaps I could."

 

**Then.**

 

 

**The Old Palace  
** **Sunspear  
** **Dorne**

"Who are you, boy?" the oldest girl repeats, her face cast in shadow, a low note of menace pervading her deep voice. 

He swallows, refusing to be afraid of girls, and says, "Jon." 

A deep breath. 

A word of thanks to the gods that his name is so short. Jon doesn't think he could've managed any more. 

He turns to the scariest girl, with her close-cropped curls, a silver barbell glinting on her nose, white scars littered across her skin, a still-pink wound puckered down the side of her neck. Her dagger spins and spins, catching sunlight, casting rainbow fractals across her pretty, cruel face. 

"Can you teach me how to do that?" he whispers, all in a rush, ignoring the shrill note of panic in the back of his head that's saying, 'Shut up shut up she's going to kill you for the love of the old gods and the new, don't- oh boy, you've done it now.'

The dagger pauses. The girl smiles. 

(Jon pretends he isn't dizzy with relief.)

 

 _Nymeria_. Her name is _Nymeria_ , unless Prince Oberyn is particularly vexed with her, and then she is _'Lady Nym,'_ drawled long and sarcastic.  

It makes her eyes flash with irritation, and even years later, it'll still send a little thrill of fear skittering down Jon's spine. Nymeria in one of her rages is a beautiful, terrible thing. 

**Now.**  

**King's Landing  
** **The Crownlands**

He won.  

Over and over and _over_ again, to a roaring crowd and thunderous applause, Sansa watched with growing horror, as this _nobody_ bastard, this strange, Nothern Dornishman tossed experienced knights - knights of the _Kingsguard_ , even! - off their saddles and into the dusty ground. He unhorsed them all, beautiful Loras from House Tyrell, and staid old Lord Commander Barristan, who had given up his heirdom to House Selmy when he had taken his vows and his whitecloak. 

Gregor Clegane murdered a man, his lance was so deadly, and unhorsed several others. When he knocked Jaime Lannister to the ground, Sansa cast a fearful look at the Queen, heart pounding in her throat, the memory of her sentencing Lady to death rising bright and crystal-hard to the forefront of her mind. Cersei Lannister's beautiful face with tight with suppressed rage, but the King was red-faced and chuckling at the sight of his handsome good-brother choking on dust, and the crowd took it as leave to scream their approval. 

The people of the Crownlands had little love for a Kingslayer.

And then there were only two left - The Mountain and the Black Knight. 

Sansa held her breath, along with the crowd. The men took their starting positions, and Sansa couldn't help but think of how handsome he had looked, those bare seconds in the beginning, the sharp blade of his nose, those shadowed eyes, the fullness of his lips... Sansa hadn't been able to hide the shiver that trembled through her, a sweet-sticky heat bubbling in her belly, making her toes curl in her silk slippers, and pink climb into her cheeks. 

She hated it, hated that her body betrayed her so awfully even when she was already betrothed to another. Prince Joffrey, beautiful, clever Joffrey, with his golden curls and broad shoulders and wicked smile, why, Sansa fancied she was luckiest girl in the world, to be called his lady love. 

 _Even if his world didn't turn to colour for you?_ a nasty voice whispered. _Even though your own bonded is out there, somewhere, someone who saw you and turned their back on you?_

_Even if your own bonded decided you were too stupid and silly and ugly to love? Even if they **left** you?!_

 

Sansa swallowed hard, breath shivering out of her even though the day was warm and bright, the last vestiges of a stubborn summer that lingered in the capital, long fingers of golden sunlight turning to world happy, magical... perfect. She hid the ugliness deep within herself, the only way she knew how, and turned her gaze outward, across the sea of banners and pennants, the color bursting bright and mocking, and she locked her gaze on Ser Jon. 

In his darkness, there was a respite from the brightness of the world, and Sansa could pretend she hadn't been abandoned, that she hadn't been judged and found unworthy. When she looked at him, dark horse, dark shield, dark armor, dark eyes... She could finally breathe. 

And then, suddenly, he seemed to turn, just a little to the side, and though she could not see his face, the helm blocking it away, she knew, she knew he was looking at her, as if he had felt the weight of her gaze through the cold-forged metal and the summer air between them. 

Her breath caught midway, her heart thundered in her ears, and when the horn blew and Ser Jon wrenched his gaze away, Sansa found her hand clutching Papa's, sweaty and shaky for reasons she couldn't begin to fathom, her face paler than the snows of the North. 

She tore her eyes away from him, fear clamping down on her throat - Ser Gregor had _**killed**_ a man today, and if- _if-_ she cut off the awful thought and before she squeezed her eyes shut, she glimpsed another pair of dark eyes fastened on her from across the jousting lanes. 

The Martell contingent sat across from the Starks and the Small Council, and at their center was Princess Arianne, the jewel of Dorne, clad in the scandalously thin yellow silks she so seemed to favour, her dark hair pulled back from her temples with garnet clips, tumbling down her back and over her shoulders in a riot of glossy curls. She was watching Sansa, a strange look in her eye, a small, dangerous smile curling up the side of her mouth, and Sansa recalled the one other thing Myrcella had told her about Ser Jon, the secret she hadn't mentioned to Papa - there was a rumour about him....

A rumour that he warmed the Princess' bed. 

Sansa shivered, feeling horribly off-kilter, as the sounds of hooves hitting the ground began the grow closer, war drums pounding in time to her heartbeat, and pretended the ugly, black thing that had begun to fester in her belly was not jealousy. Why should it be? Let Arianne keep her bastard knight, she thought furiously, shamefully, to herself.

Sansa Stark would have herself a _king._


	3. Chapter 3

**AVENGE.**

"Open your eyes, Sansa," comes Lord Stark's murmur from close to her ear, as the crowd roars. "Look..."

Obediently, her heart in her throat, her eyes flutter open, cautious and bubbling with fear, and- and-

Jon Snow raises his shattered lance into the air, his face bright with fierce triumph, and in that moment, he is transformed.

His smile is brilliant against his sun-warmed skin, his grey eyes alight with fire, and Sansa- she can't  _breathe,_ for in that moment, he is beautiful.

But the Mountain That Rides bellows like a wounded animal, drawing his sword, and he garrotes his horse in a single, violent arc of the blade, dark red blood geysering from the wound, arterial spray spurting across his breastplate, mottling it crimson. 

There's murder in his dark eyes, when he turns to face his opponent, but Jon-

Jon has his back to Gregor Clegane-

The Mountain charges, silent as a viper-

Sansa finds herself leaping to her feet, fingers knuckling bone-white on the rails of the stands-

"Look out!" 

The scream rips itself from her throat, and he looks at her, a single, electric moment, not even the length of a second, before he slips off his horse, and ducks to his knees, cleanly avoiding the Mountain's swing. 

Sansa barely heard Sandor Clegane's bitten off curse from a few feet to her left, but then he's jumping to the forefront too, blocking his brother's swing while Ser Jon recovers, rising to his feet with a feral, cold snarl. The fight is a blur of steel, metal clashing in a flurry of blows and parries too quick for Sansa to follow. Before she can catch her breath, the Hound _roars,_ abandoning his sword entirely to swing a vicious right hook into the side of Gregor Clegane's face, the sound of a sickening crunch exploding across the tilts. But the Mountain staggers to his feet, quaking with his fury, eyes narrowed to slits and focused entirely on the Hound. He never sees the blow coming from Ser Jon, and when his head lurches off his neck and topples with excruciating slowness to the dusty ground below, his eyes are still wide with surprise. 

**The Old Palace  
** **Sunspear**

**Nine years ago**

"Are _they_ bonded?" Jon whispered to Nymeria, for the seventh time that day, who rolled her eyes and whacked the back of his head none too gently. 

Prince Doran's guests from across the Narrow Sea - Lys and Myr and Pentos, as far as Astapor and Yi Ti, exotic, pretty names that roll off Jon's tongue like music - filed into the SIlver Ballroom in pairs, bonded and unbonded, married and unmarried, siblings and friends and lovers and allies. They're dressed in brilliant, jewel-toned silks, plume feathers bobbing from brocaded turbans, throats and fingers and earlobes glittering with diamonds and gold.

Jon and Nymeria were peering over the balconies from the upper floors of the hallway that led from the Great Hall to the ballroom, watching the procession go by, laughter and soft music drifting up to them in a pleasant burble.

"Don't be stupid," Nymeria snapped, though her face was perfectly calm. Her voice crackled with irritable fury, a beast cocking an eye open to see who has roused it from slumber. "They're sisters. Or, well. Half-sisters, at any rate. Siblings can't be bonded unless they're Targaryens, you idiot. Everyone knows that."

"But I'm not-" Jon cut himself off, frowning hard, staring unseeingly at the stream of guests flitting down below like wayward birds of paradise, while his mind whirred through the pieces of new information, trying to make them fit. It was no use, not yet, and Nymeria was already staring at him, curious and lambent, bright green eyes boring holes into the side of his head. 

"You're not what?" she asked. 

"Huh?"

"You're _'not',_ you said," she muttered, rolling her eyes and looking exactly like her father. "Not what?"

Jon shrugged helplessly, grey eyes wide and guileless. "I don't remember." He had been practicing that particular expression in front of his looking glass for ages, and from the way Nymeria scowled at him, and looked back towards the assembled court, it had worked. 

Jon bit back a triumphant smile. Not so sharp now, eh, Lady Nym?

Siblings cannot bond. Not even _half_ -siblings. Then how had he and Sansa...

He would think about this for years, the thought repeatedly worming through this mind, and it would be years before he made the obvious connection.

_Siblings_ couldn't bond.

Unless of course, they _weren't_ siblings at all. 

Unless one of them _wasn't_ really a Stark. 

The new question then was, which one of them was Ned Stark's child? Who was the cuckoo in the nest?

 

**Now.**

**King's Landing  
** **The Crownlands**   

It takes a while for the crowd to recover from the carnage, Silent Sisters being brought forward to clear away the corpse, before the King announced the victor. A sack of gold, bulging at the seams is tossed into his hands, that he accepts with a sly grin and a low, graceful bow. 

 

A page hands him a wreath of golden roses, each bloom unfurled and perfect, the petals bursting with honey-sweet fragrance. Highgarden blooms, gifted by Lord Mace Tyrell. 

"Go on, then," the King booms. "Crown your queen, man!"

Ser Jon bows from his seat atop his stallion, coin purse hitched to his sword belt, wreath in one hand and the reins in his other. He guides the horse down the stands, his eyes fixed away from her, on- 

On Father?

He comes to a stop before them, and his eyes are flat, fathomless, a hardness in them Sansa has seen once before, in Sandor Clegane's eyes. It makes her blood run cold. She doesn't, even for a passing moment, think he is about to place the crown in her lap.

"Lord Stark," says the Dornish knight, each syllable low and clipped. 

Sansa and Arya both swivel their necks towards Lord Stark in dumbfounded unison, but there's a- a _smile_ on father's face, warm and genuine, crinkling up the corners of his eyes. 

"Son," he says genially, and Sansa sees Arya's jaw drop open before the two sisters meet eyes. 

_'Son?'_ Arya mouths at her, and Sansa, who's sick with confusion and anger, hitches her shoulder in a shrug before turning back to Jon, her glare as icy as any Nothern wind. 

"My lady," Jon says to Arya, before turning to Sansa. 

His jaw clicks shut as he takes in her expression, and, from the corner of her eye, Sansa sees his hand tighten around the wreath, crushing the roses until their fat, prickly thorns bite into his skin. 

The knight pauses, and Sansa watches the light dim in his eyes. He swallows, his eyes so _so_ cold that Sansa shivers despite the weather. 

He does not say a word to her, but instead tugs at the reins, sharply, turning the horse around and crossing the tilts before tossing the lopsided wreath in Arianne Martell's lap with a cheeky grin and an almost obsequious bow. She blows him a kiss, popping the wreath, with its half-crushed roses, on her dark curls at a jaunty angle. 

The crowd howls with laughter at their cheek, before cheering for Ser Jon once more, adopting a new beloved into their boisterous fold. Sansa's heartbeat is still thundering in her ears. She feels sick to her bones.

**Later that day**

Arya sneaks into the training hard behind the barracks in the Red Keep the morning after the melee, and sees Ser Jon practicing with three- 

Three  _girls._ Girls!

Arya gapes at them, the way their golden skin gleams under the fierce sun, the way their world their weapons, spears and swords and wickedly curved daggers, the bright flash of metal as it arcs through the air. 

They're all lightly armored - very, very lightly, Arya realizes, the sort of armor that would have sent Ser Roderick back home into absolute fits, but they way they fight, brutal and sharp and fierce, limbs flashing almost to quickly to see in parries and swerves... Gods, but it takes her breath away. 

She inches closer for a better look, slack-jawed and-

_CRASH!_

The sound of a bucket of nails hitting the flagstoned-floor breaks the peace like thunder, as Arya claps her hands to her mouth, and whips up to look at Ser Jon and the southron girls, her eyes wide with horror and embarrassment. 

"I'm sorry!" she squeaks from between her fingers, ears burning and knees nearly knocking together. 

"Who are you?" snarls the girl who had been sparring with Jon, advancing upon Arya, letting the tip of her spear scrape along the ground as she walks, letting the screech of it echo through the yard. 

Behind her, Ser Jon and the other girls roll their eyes. 

"She's Ned Stark's girl," Ser Jon drawls tiredly. He looks at her, and Arya can feel her heartbeat in her throat. "Aren't you?"

Arya nods hard, her skinny braid bouncing with the force of it. And before she can stop herself, the question spills out, in a single breath. _"Areyoureallymybrother?"_ Oh seven _hells,_ she's _done_ for now. 

The girl with the spear pauses, one eyebrow slowly ascending upwards. She twists to look over her shoulder, jerking a careless thumb at Arya. " _This_ is your sister?" Her accent is heavy, drawing her vowels in strange, lilting ways. Arya peers past the girl at Ser Jon himself, stripped down to a leather vest and breeches, and butter-soft, calfskin boots, his skin glistening with sweat. 

"Are you _really_ my brother?" Arya asks again, a little unconvinced. Father wasn't the sort of man who had bastards... Unlike the King, whom everyone, from the guards to the scullery maids knew, had bastards littered across the length and breadth of the Seven Kingdoms. Father was... well, _Father._ He was the most honorable man she knew. 

But Ser Jon smiles, a little crookedly boyish, and Arya is reminded that he isn't even Robb's age, not yet. "Aye, my lady," he says. "I am."

Arya blinks, attempting to digest this new, strange information. "I'm not a lady," she says, finally, but that's more out of habit than anything, and then, almost hesitantly, adds, "Can you teach me to fight?"

Jon quirks an eyebrow, and beside him, the two girls erupt into poorly-muffled giggles. 

The spear snaps against the ground, and Arya's eyes whip back to the closest threat. But the girl is smiling, even though it simply makes her look slightly feral, before she says, "Of course he will teach you. And if he doesn't, I will."

Arya cocks her little head to the side. "Are you any good?"

The giggles cut off abruptly, and from the corner of her eye, Arya sees Ser Jon's jaw drop open. She ignores it. The tall girl is still smiling, green eyes bright with amusement. "I'm better than _him,"_ she says, lazily confident, a viper coiled in the tall grass, waiting to strike. 

Arya grins back. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listen even i don't know where i'm going with this swampy fucking mess (/._.)/


	4. Chapter 4

Count down.

**SIX.**

The last book Jon Arryn read.

In his chambers he stripped off his council silks and sat for a moment with the book while he waited for Jory to arrive. _The Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms, With Descriptions of Many High Lords and Noble Ladies and Their Children,_ by Grand Maester Malleon. Pycelle had spoken truly; it made for ponderous reading. Yet Jon Arryn had asked for it, and Ned felt certain he had reasons.  
  
There was something here, some truth buried in these brittle yellow pages, if only he could see it. _But what?_

\- Eddard, Chapter 27, A Game of Thrones

The afternoon after the tourney, after meeting Arya Stark, found Jon Snow and Obarra Sand sat across from each other at a tavern in Flea Bottom, nursing enormous mugs of ale, radiating exhaustion and black menace. The barmaids and all the men, people of good sense who believed quite strongly in the virtues of not being murdered, gave them a foot-wide berth.

"She's good, your sister," Obarra offers.

"Sansa?" Jon asked blankly. "What?"

And Obarra wonders what it is about the little red wolf that has Jon forgetting the girl they've spent all afternoon with. Lady Sansa is his _sister_ for heavens' sake, he can't be after her...

No. No. She mustn't forget - he's bonded already, for all that he won't give them a name. Somewhere out there, a woman holds Jon Snow in the palm of her hand, and that woman certainly isn't his _sister._

"Arya," she corrects dryly, and the tips of his ears turn pink with embarrassment.

"She needs practice," Jon mutters into his tankard.

Obarra rolls her eyes. "She's eleven. She has time to practice."

Privately, Jon agrees. "She need a sword of her own," he counters instead, snappish and irritable. "So get her one."

Jon looks up at her then, brow raised. "Get her a... sword?"

"You _are_ her brother, yes? If she needs a sword, get her a sword."

Jon finally grins, realization dawning on his stupid, pretty face, and Obarra shakes her head at him, restless, bored and yes, alright, a little bit amused.

They've always treated him like the baby of the family, she and Nymeria and Tyene have, for all that they spent every other minute threatening him with pointy blades and knocking his silly arse into the ground. But he's grown into himself now, a man by any right.

The taste of the thought lingers in her mind, bittersweet.

“Mother says there's to be a feast on the morrow," Myrcella tells Sansa, as they make their way through the Red Keep's gardens hand-in-hand, the princess's rose silk skirts brushing against sansa's silver-blue samite. The scent of summer's last blossoms hangs heavy and sweet in the air, over the brine of the Blackwater. Today too, Septa Mordane is absent; she took to bed three days ago, following a rather nasty bout of coughing, and has since been taking a series of incredibly vile potions from Grandmaester Pycelle.

Sansa is secretly rather glad for her newfound freedom.

The last events of the Hand's tourney were held yesterday, with Gerold Dayne, the lord sansa has heard referred to as the ‘Darkstar,' declared the winner of the melee. Lord Stark had forbidden both his girls from attending, after the Mountain's butchery on the fields of the tilt, but Arya had snuck in anyway and it had been from her that Sansa discovered - Ser Jon didn't win only because he had been defending the Darkstar's back from both Jaime Lannister and the Hound, while the Dornishman took on Thoros of Myr and his great, flaming sword.

It makes her uncomfortable, this new knowledge of Jon Snow, of his valor and loyalty and courage, all the things that Sansa has so loved about the knights of old, caught in the shape of this dark bastard boy that her father - her own _father!_ \- sired.

The afternoon heat has reached fever-pitch, as Myrcella continues sunnily, completely unaware of Sansa's inner turmoil, “The feast is to be held in the victors' honour, Mother says. She says I may even dance with Ser Jon if I wish it. And you, my lady!" she exclaims laughingly, whirling in on Sansa, teasing accusation in her voice, “You lying wretch! You didn't tell me _Jon Snow_ was your _brother!"_

 _"Half_ brother," Sansa corrects sharply, before flushing bright pink. “That is- Ah- I didn't know, your grace," Sansa stammers. “Father- my lord Father, he never told us about Ser Jon."

But Myrcella nods peaceably, and resumes her place by Sansa's side, drawing her to a low stone seat, shaped like a crescent moon, half-hidden in a copse of highgarden roses. their knees press together in the little space, and Myrcella murmurs, "I'm not supposed to know about my half- brother, either," Myrcella admits. "Or my half-sisters."

The wind has died down now, the air is filled with birdsong, and Sansa's throat is rather painfully dry when she asks, “Do you have many of them, your grace? Half-brothers and -sisters?"

Myrcella nods, but there's no hurt in her eyes, nothing but a level-headed pragmatism that has Sansa shocked. “There's a few of them," she says, “But I don't know any of their names. Or where they are." She sighs, sadly. “I should like to meet them, someday," she confesses, and Sansa slips her hands into Myrcella's, squeezing gently.

“You would?” Sansa asks, amazed that anyone could want such a thing. “But they're- they’re-"

 _‘Baseborn,'_ she thinks coldly, but does not give voice to her thoughts. The princess, Sansa has a feeling, wouldn't appreciate it at all.

“I know what they are," Myrcella agrees uncertainly. She smiles at Sansa, and her eyes are startling in the faded light, a green as bright as emeralds, like a new spring. “But they're my family. And I wish I could keep them safe."

**FIVE.**

Robert Baratheon, black of hair.

Ned touched the boy’s head, fingering the thick black hair. “Look at me, Gendry.” The apprentice lifted his face. Ned studied the shape of his jaw, the eyes like blue ice. _Yes,_ he thought, _I see it._

_\- Eddard, Chapter 27, A Game of Thrones_

 

The next day, two days after the tourney, dawned grey and forbidding, and the whole world seemed to have locked itself indoors. A storm was brewing over the Blackwater, Pycelle said. It would reach the capital by nightfall.

The muddy hem of her borrowed, black cloak flapped about her ankles as they wove their way through the capital's crowd, Arya scurrying a half- step behind the Sand Snakes, trying to stifle her giggles at how everyone practically _leapt_ out of their way, staring gape-jawed at the four sisters, with their leather tunics and naked spears.

It was the day of the ball, and Arya Stark was the last person in Westeros who could possibly give a damn.

The scent of brine was thick in the air, as they left behind Fishmonger's Square, but when the girls began to move towards the Street of Steel, Arya

frowned, tugging at the hem of Sarella's tunic, and asked the quiet older girl, “Why are we going _there?”_

Sarella grinned, her teeth a shock of brilliant white against her warm, Summer Islander skin. “Your brother did not tell you?" Arya stuck out her lower lip, mutinous. “He said it was supposed to be a _surprise_ ," she muttered, and Sarella's grin grew wider.

“Won't be much of a surprise if I tell you then, would it?" Sarella teased, falling into step with the little Northerner, swinging an arm around her skinny shoulders as they began their ascent up the street. Arya hissed in pain when Sarella's hand brushed a new bruise, purpling at the high point of her arm beneath her tunic - her training with the Snakes had begun yesterday, and it seemed to Arya as if the Martell girls took _far_ too much delight in tossing her to the ground.

But towards the end of the first day, Nymeria had grinned down at Arya, too many teeth to be anything but terrifying, and said, "You have the grace of a shadowcat, Arya Stark. We'll make a warrior of you yet," before hauling her back up to her feet.

...not that Arya was entirely certain what a shadowcat _was,_ but she found she rather enjoyed the comparison all the same. 

“I don't _like_ surprises," Arya complained, with very little heat, and Sarella burst out laughing.

“Oh, lovely girl, Jon Snow does not like surprises either." Sarella bumped their hips together, bopping her on the nose and added, “You are just like him, eh?"

Arya beamed back. It was _exactly_ the right thing to say.

The knock came at Sansa's door mere hours before the ball, and she waved away her handmaidens, who were slowly dampening her hair with jasmine oil, a tediously dull affair that had to be undertaken before Sansa's hair could be arranged in one of those intricate southron coiffures the queen so loved.

A servant girl helped Sansa pull on a heavily brocaded dressing gown, before she called out, “Enter!"

And when the door swung open to reveal _him,_ Sansa felt her blood rush to her toes, suddenly dry-mouthed and dizzy as a newborn foal.

“Ser Jon," she rasped, her cheeks burning in bright spots of pink.

He bowed, before replying, respectfully, “Lady Sansa. Princess Arianne wishes for the pleasure of your company in the gardens. I'm to guide you to her, if it please you."

“Princess Arianne?" Sansa repeated dumbly, blinking too fast to see. She pointed a finger to herself. _“Me?"_

And suddenly, he grinned, a faint, upward curl of his lips that made him almost heart-stoppingly handsome. “You," he replied, relaxing, and propping himself up against her door, crossing his arms over his chest and prompting stifled giggles from her handmaidens. It wasn't everyday handsome young knights came knocking on ladies' doors, after all, even if the lady was the betrothed sort. “Would you like to meet her?"

“I- Yes!" Her answering smile was radiant, her voice as soft as a kiss. “Thank you, Ser Jon. If you would give me a minute to dress, I should like that beyond anything."

When the Sand Snakes neared the the highest point of the Street of Steel, Arya caught sight of a stallion tied to a post, the saddleskirt bearing the king's sigil, nickering softly outside the door to an enormous forge, a enormous knight standing at the threshold, yelling obscenities at someone inside.

“Stop!" she gasped, tightening her grip around Sarella's wrist and dragging her sideways into the shadows. Sarella knocked into the sandstone walls of a storefront with an outraged _'oof!'_ before glaring down at her companion.

 _“What,"_ she snarled, suddenly as fierce as Nymeria at her worst.

“Whitecloak!" Arya replied in a whisper. “He's one of the Kingsguard - the mean one, Meryn Trant! He'll recognize me! And if father finds out-"

“He will _not_ recognize you," Sarella cut in sharply. “Men only see what they think they should see, and you, with your muddy cloak and dirty little hands, trailing after the Sand Snakes of Dorne..." She snorted, pure derision in her words, “He will see a slumrat, or a beggar girl, some runaway brat from Flea Bottom looking for a little coin." Sarella met her gaze levelly. “What he will _not_ see, is Lady Arya, of House Stark, daughter to the Hand of the King, because Arya Stark is where all the noble girls are - safely trapped in the Red Keep."

Arya nodded, as Sarella's words sunk in, but her fear was a living thing, tearing at her insides with bloody claws and dripping fangs.

“You are scared," Sarella concluded, and mutely, Arya nodded again. “Very well. This lesson, we will save for another day. Shall we go around the back instead?"

A third nod, and a tremulous smile, and as Sarella called out to her sisters to inform them of the change in route, Arya wondered with a lonely, aching desperation why papa hadn't sent her away to Dorne as well. She would've chosen Sarella over Sansa a hundred, a _thousand_ times again.

**FOUR.**

"I will not be part of murder, Robert."

"Daenerys is a fourteen-year-old girl.” Ned knew he was pushing this well past the point of wisdom, yet he could not keep silent. “Robert, I ask you, what did we rise against Aerys Targaryen for, if not to put an end to the murder of children?”

“To put an end to Targaryens!” the king growled.

“Your Grace, I never knew you to fear Rhaegar.” Ned fought to keep the scorn out of his voice, and failed. “Have the years so unmanned you that you tremble at the shadow of an unborn child?”

Robert purpled. “No more, Ned,” he warned, pointing. “Not another word. Have you forgotten who is king here?”

“No, Your Grace,” Ned replied. “Have you?”

\- Eddard, Chapter 33, A Game of Thrones

They made their way quietly, through long hallways and then into the open air, the sky heavy with dark clouds. When the silence between them grew so thick it could've been cut by a knife, Sansa turned abruptly to Ser Jon, curving her fingers gently around his elbow and said, “Thank you, good ser."

Jon Snow turned very still, all of a sudden, staring at her in silent shock, and for a brief, sudden second sansa could've sworn his eyes rested on her lips, as if- as if he- as if he wished to... kiss her?

But then he arched a scornful eyebrow, and the feeling dissipated like so much smoke, hurt curdling in her gut as Sansa clarified, “For- For guiding me to the princess. Thank you."

Jon shrugged, and Sansa pulled back her hand in a flash, feeling as dumb and boorish as Hodor, her ears burning crimson.

“It's not for- I didn't _ask_ to-" He exhaled impatiently. “The princess asked for you. I do as the princess commands," he muttered curtly, “That is all," before stomping down the path towards the Martell’s gazebo, and Sansa wanted to scream with frustration, as she hurried to catch up, silk slippers skidding on the flagstoned path.

First Jaime Lannister, who turned out to be a Kingslayer, then Sandor Clegane, with his ugly manners and uglier face, and now-

Now this!

Jon Snow, a living product of her father's betrayal, a knighted northerner raised in the south, who was as dark as her lovely Joffrey was fair - _and handsome all the same,_ a traitorous voice whispered - and he _hated_ her! Though she had done nothing to him, bore him no ill-will despite the nature of his birth, _he_ clearly wished _her_ dead!

 _Gods,_ Sansa didn't know if she wanted to scream or sob. Where were all the true knights?

Where had they gone?

The back entrance to Tobho Mott's forge was, quite literally, a hole knocked into the sandstone wall, covered by long, black strips of leather. Nymeria strode in, Obarra and Elia after her, and when Arya made to follow, Sarella slapped a palm on her chest, holding her back.

"What?" Arya whined up at her. "Let me go!"

"Not yet." Her voice was unyielding. "Lady Nym signals us, then we follow. If there is any trouble, I don't want them remembering your face."

Arya gulped and stepped back.

The lane behind the street of steel was no back alley - in truth, it was a courseway wide enough for four men to ride abreast. The odd merchant and mounted knight cantered down the road, but even King's Landing's bustle seemed muted today, no doubt in fear of the rain.

She heard a shout, a cry, and a flash of Lannister red coming from around the bend. Sarella snarled a foul curse under her breath, before wrapping her hand over Arya's shoulder, pushing the little girl behind her, and hissing, "Bloody hells. What do the redcloaks want from here?!"

Two men, in full livery, clearly drunk out of their minds, came down the road, passing a skin of ale as they rode. One of them caught Sarella's eyes, and drunkenly yowled at his companion to 'slow down! slow down! look what we've got here...' His ugly, pock-marked face stretched with a yellowing leer, as he leaned over and said, "You one of Chataya's girls?"

Sarella's nostrils flared, jaw tightening. "No," she bit off.

"Who're you, then?" he slurred back, squinting at her gleaming leather tunic, her rider's breeches, the dirk sheathed at her waist.

"No one," she replied. "Keep riding."

"I don't think you're no one." He turned to his friend. "Do you see think she's no one?"

His friend was grinning now, gap-toothed and hungry, but his eyes were fixed on Arya. Ice slithered down her spine, but she sucked in a cold breath, and held his gaze.

_Fear cuts deeper than swords._

They both slipped down from their saddles and waddled over, armor clanking loudly, and Sarella's grip around the hilt of her dirk tightened.

And then everything slowed down, or maybe Arya because sped up, because she saw it come slowly, the first knight was stroking Sarella's cheek, the rage that contorted her pretty face. Sarella tensed, and between one second and the next, the Dornish girl was ramming her shoulder into his chest, her hand flying to connect with his throat. He choked, bloodshot eyes bulging like an ugly frog's, and his hands flew to his throat as he crashed to his knees. But his friend darted forward, towards Arya, eyes glittering with hunger. She ducked, slapping the back of his unprotected knee, not waiting to watch him fall, and then flew back to Sarella, the fight roaring in her veins. But her opponent threw himself forward with a mangled bellow, wrenching Arya off her feet by her _hair,_ and she screamed in pain, and the world turned upside-down, Sarella moving forward, her blade flashing blue-grey-

The knight Sarella had fell recovered enough to wrap his gloved hand around her ankle, and down she tumbled, down, and Arya's captor punched her in her belly, cutting off her scream for a whimper, blood pooling in her mouth when she bit the inside of her cheek-

And then there were shadows on the ground, new bodies coming out from Tobho Mott's workshop, and new grunts of pain. The knight dropped her - _hard_ \- leaping back into his horse with sudden, efficient grace, and riding away as fast as he could, while Nymeria let out a bloodthirsty scream.

"Hey," a voice was saying, a heavy, calloused hand on her shoulder, as the cobblestones beneath Arya swam round and round and round, like vultures circling a corpse. "Kid, you al-" 

Arya looked up.

She looked up, to a shocked face, of a boy not as old as Robb, his jaw dark with the shadow of a beard, his bare arms rippling with corded muscle and the faint sheen of sweat, and her first thought, was this, that his eyes were the exact shade of the sky behind him.

His hair was a familiar darkness, inky and glistening with perspiration, _black,_ and his skin was warm, deepened by the sun, _brown,_ but his eyes, Arya could see, her heartbeat louder than thunder, the warm taste of blood heavy on her tongue... His eyes were _blue._

Her second thought was much more her own, was sharper and louder and a lot more succinct. It went like this:  
_Oh. Oh no._  

To be continued in Chapter 5.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> myrcella being wildly ooc is my aesthetic for 2018. thank you for reading! remember to hit kudos if you liked it, and subscribe if you want to be updated when chapter 5 is up.


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